Rain can't wash away
by ShadowKissedAnna
Summary: "Angleterre," he tried again. "Promise me… promise me you won't forget…" He wasn't scared of dying. He wasn't scared of losing. Not anymore.


What have I written! Oh my gods… My OTP… I don't know what came over me, but this idea was stuck in my head and I just HAD to write it… Oh my…

Excuse me while I go cry elsewhere…

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"A-Angleterre…" he gasped, trying to regain the breath that had been stolen from his lungs. He made no move to lift his already abused body off the dirt, no move to defend himself. The man above him showed no intentions of backing down either, sword held steadily at hand, bony knuckles going white. He was going to die. Francis knew that very well. He had known since the beginning of the war. And he was going to die from the hand of his own husband. That, they had known forever.

And he wasn't afraid. He wasn't scared for himself, for his own life, for his own sanity, but rather for England's. Because this man, -this nation- that stood above him with the rain pouring down on them wasn't England. He wasn't the man he had shared his nights, his weaknesses and his heart with. He wasn't Arthur Kirkland, the Briton that couldn't cook to save his life and who read a little too much Shakespeare and preferred that horrendous tea over coffee. This wasn't his Arthur, the same Briton that would act as if not having a care about the Frenchman but would unconsciously snuggle closer at night.

Francis would hold him every time.

No. This indeed wasn't _him_. For this was the British Empire.

France could still hear the cries of the young South Italy. He cried for _Spagna_, he yelled and screamed and shouted for him to wake up, to fight back. The Spaniard hadn't budged. And the cries still lingered in the air, even if they had been silenced long ago.

The air that was thick with blood and dirt and gun powder. Not even the heavy downpour could wash it all away.

"Angleterre," he tried again. "Promise me… promise me you won't forget…" He wasn't scared of dying. He wasn't scared of losing. Not anymore. The only thing that worried him was England. It was that he would wake up from this trance only to realize how much pain he had caused, what horrible things he had done. He would be devastated.

Would he miss him? He hoped he would. Yes, he was a selfish bastard. For sure Arthur couldn't forget the wonderful times they had shared, or their fights –even if they were just about who was to buy milk today and forgot. He didn't want him to. Because at least there, he could still be alive: in Arthur's heart and mind. Then it would be alright.

Arthur snorted above him, sword pointed over his heart. "It's over. You're over. You've lost, France. Taste your defeat for as long as you still can."

"Have I really?" He reached up and pulled the other blond down to him, making him stumble and straddle his waist. The sword scratched at his chest, tore a few layers of clothing, ripped some skin apart. The blood was swiped away by the rain. "Oh, mon cher…"

"Bloody git!"

France ignored the struggles and the curses that were thrown his way. The weight over him was strangely comforting. It felt warm and oh so familiar… "Mon Angleterre, Je t'aime." With that he reached up, fingers tangling in the wet blond locks at the base of England's neck as he brought him down forcefully, effectively shutting him up by connecting their lips into an intense kiss. It was deep and it was intense and it held everything that couldn't or didn't need to be said.

France didn't notice, but the blade of the sword that had been between them had gone right through his chest, handle pressed between their bodies.

His palms cupped England's face and his lips traced lips as soft as rose petals and England stopped struggling. His hands fisted France's uniform, nails digging into his shoulders and he kissed back with favor.

But it was broken. The connection, the kiss, everything. All too soon and too rudely. Because nothing, nothing should be allowed to interrupt such a divine connection.

"_Toujours_," he whispered weakly as his fingers brushed back some of the wet hair that had been plastered on England's forehead. Just before his hand fell to the ground, holding it up being beyond his powers right then.

He got a glimpse of England's frantic stare, eyes wide and crazed as he took in the state they were in, seemingly for the first time. "No…" he whispered, jaw trembling as he took in all the blood that was being washed away from his hands. When his gaze swept to France, his eyes were closed and his heart skipped a few beats. "Francis?" He hovered over the other nation, shaking his head, vision clouded and tentatively touched his hands to the other's pectorals. He bit his lip, fingers clutching limp shoulders. "No! No, wake up. You have to wake up…" his voice broke, a few sobs slipping past his lips unintentionally. "You have to…" He clutched the Frenchman tightly, mindful of the sword's position that was still buried in his chest, pressing his face at the curve of Francis's neck. Arthur sobbed, mumbling incorrigible things. Desperate, he was desperate. "I hate you…"

Such a common phrase between them, wasn't it? And oh, the irony. For centuries they had been rivals. He should have been proud; he should have been happy, right? Only he was anything but that. They had both gone over the edge, past their bosses' wishes, and they had mingled. They had fallen in love. They had married –only a month ago, right at the beginning of the war.

They had known. Oh, they had known. But they had done it anyway, with only a few chosen nations knowing –Spain, and Romano, and Prussia. They had agreed, that whatever happened they wouldn't forget. They would always hold the other alive within each other. Arthur reached in his shirt and pulled out a thin gold chain, from which hung a lone gold band. _"Promise me… you won't forget…"_

Arthur cried, and sobbed and yelled over Francis's limp body, the 'I love you's falling from his lips un-answered –not unheard, he hoped, for his sanity.

And with La Manche in the horizon, the rain kept falling down on them right there, plastering Francis's golden hair to the ground, washing the blood away and taking it down into the earth, where it would stay and it would be forever a silent reminder. Not really there, but always present.

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If you've read my other Hetalia story, "Truce?", don't worry. School might have started and all, but I finally got to work. And I've got so many stories to update/write… Gods…

Oh, and of course, I do not own the characters or the cover picture.

Review ?


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